Brilliance
by Chavi
Summary: "He caressed a petal, once vibrant and brilliant in color, now tattered." Hermione/Severus expansion upon a vignette.
1. Disclaimer

****

A/N April 18, 2003: Latest chapter, **Emergence**, posted today--it's a good bit longer than the last, and I quite like it; hope that you will too. Thanks!

A/N: This started out as a short little ficlet, but I got some encouraging reviews--and reviews that wanted me to clear the meaning up--so I decided to continue. Thanks for the support!

Disclaimer: I do not own Hermione Granger, Severus Snape, their respective friends and enemies, their homes--be they at Hogwarts of elsewhere--or anything else of their world. It all belongs to J.K. Rowling and various publishing companies, movie companies, and any subsidiaries therof, whose rights I do not intentionally infringe. 

I apologize to any of the wonderful writers at ffnet and other fanfiction sites whose ideas I have absorbed and unknowingly included in my story. 

This is all being done for fun--no money is involved, and I'm dirt poor anyway, so please don't sue me!


	2. Brilliance

It started in a moment of weakness. She winced as a sudden movement caused her migraine to flare up, pain filling every sense she had. Her eyes squeezed shut, blocking out the light, and her shoulders suddenly hunched in an attempt to prevent the inevitable stimulus overload. 

They'd been coming more often, and the intermittent breaks were shorter and shorter. It had to be the midterm pressure, that odd perfume that Lavender insisted on trying even though it smelled vile, the nutmeg in the oatmeal at breakfast--she hated nutmeg. It was easy to rationalize away the pain, especially since it wasn't debilitating. Just annoying. Not even annoying, but a slight irritant that could be ignored, if she really tried. 

She gathered her courage, and released the muscles holding her face tense. Eyelids, yes, they could open now--the pain was gone, really. Just a slight pang, nothing much. Nothing to worry about, or try to treat with the many potions available to Madame Pomfrey. Nothing at all.

At least until she opened her eyes.

"Miss Granger!" Snape barked, his face inches away from her suddenly wide eyes. 

She leaned back slowly, putting as much distance between them as the desk behind her would allow. Neville, usually sitting next to her, was nearly sharing the seat with Parvati one over. 

"If you are here to attempt to learn something, as _doubtful _as success may be," his voice, turned silkily dangerous, suddenly took on a more contemptuous tone, "I suggest you pay more attention to my lecture than your memories of last nights _adventures_, whomever you might have shared them with." He paused just to hiss, "Thirty points from Gryffindor," before breaking the eye contact he had maintained and returning to his desk. 

She hadn't heard a word he said, past the initial greeting. 

Perhaps it was something that only showed in times of anger, or, knowing Snape, amusement. Perhaps it was something that wasn't immediately visible. Or perhaps she was the only one who had looked. All she could think about was how his eyes had been a shattering mosaic of browns, with just hints of green; and how they were the most beautiful things she had ever seen.

And so it began. 

Obsession is not logical. It comes without warning, terrorizing innocents and often leaving sorrow; no matter what the object of attention is. Friends, family, and work are ignored. Relationships, reputations, and grades are the victims.

It was, surprisingly enough, Draco Malfoy who first noticed the change. His rank in the class had moved, up by one. One higher than second. One above Hermione Granger. 

When the inevitable reward from his father came, he felt moved by some emotion to share it with the former leader. Probably malice. 

The meeting was singularly unsuccessful in its initial purpose--to annoy the mudblood--but surprisingly fun despite her lack of reaction. You see, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley had been unaware of the change, and were not happy--to say the least.

Their outrage went without remark from Hermione, who had been growing more distant throughout the week. She spent even more time in the library--though what she researched, she would not say. It was the headaches she blamed for both problems, headaches which had been growing stronger each day. Not that she noticed. They were still manageable. Still under control. 

Her friends, being the heroic Gryffindors so adored for their courage and goodwill, ignored her excuses for what they were. She was lifted into Harry's arms, gently carried to the hospital wing and given to the mercy of Madame Pomfrey, who clucked at the state of her.

What easily goes un-noticed by most of the male population is instantly perceived by any woman. Poppy Pomfrey eyed the bags that belied the amount of rest Hermione had been getting, the state of her hair, and the crumpled clothes; and set to doing something about them.

Hermione inwardly protested at the fact that she was defenseless to the motherly care; until she found that she didn't mind, really. She was handed a warm fleece nightgown, in the softest of yellows, directed to the hospital's bathroom. A marble tub, unique in its abilities, adjusted itself to Hermione's needs: someplace to lie down, encompassed by the water's warmth, without being deep enough to inspire fear of drowning. 

Madame Pomfrey bustled around with towels, soaps, and potion infused candles. She turned on the water, released lavender bubbles to float on the surface, and led the fading girl inside. An assessing glance went unnoticed as Hermione slipped into the water with a sigh, but sent the hospital matron to get a potion to deal with the headaches that Harry and Ron had described and Hermione had dismissed as unimportant. They were obviously taking more of a toll than simple headaches, and would require a special remedy.

Hermione exalted in the feeling of the water, its gentle waves massaging her sides even as the bubbles melded themselves to her skin, only to feel more luxurious than anything a spa could provide-- regardless of its origins, muggle or magical.

She did not hear the bath's door open, nor did she notice the footsteps, too sharp to be Madame Pomfrey's. Thus his voice, when it came, was a shock.

"I've been made aware of your... condition."

She started, her head saved from hitting the marble wall only by his hand. 

"Had you found any information on it?" His voice was surprisingly neutral, the customary sharpness held in with strict control. The assumption that research had been her immediate reaction was simply an acceptance of who she was.

She shook her head softly, relishing his hand in her hair. He did not remove it.

"The Hogwarts library is without compare when it comes to many subjects; this, however, is not one of them."

She responded by half turning in the water to face him where he crouched on the edge of the tub, one hand dangling in the water. Distrust, dismay, and hope were written in her eyes, emotions left terrifyingly open to him. Only to him. 

It was too late to care about appearances or rules; sometimes obsession has a mind of its own. It certainly does not bend to the standards that society sets for right and wrong.

"You see," he said, handing her one of the large, soft towels with the gown on top, and turning to allow her some privacy "it is not a force that is talked of in the magical world; yet it is one that I am not unfamiliar in."

She stepped out of the water and dried herself thoroughly, then pulled the nightshirt down with only a slight grimace at the moisture in her hair. As he continued, she sat down with her feet hanging in the still-warm water. 

"It is powerful, no doubt, and only grows more so. I believe it started with a series of headaches?" He displayed an innate sense of timing, returning to her side as she relaxed by the tub. Her nod was affirmation enough. 

He removed his black leather shoes and black wool socks to slip pale feet into the water beside hers. A brush appeared in his hand, and he went to work at her hair. She uttered none of the protests which the student body and a great deal of the staff would have expected. 

"There is a point when brilliance must give in to reason. A point where limits are set, limits to how far we can exert ourselves. Limits that a truly brilliant mind will not accept." 

His hands were gentle as they negotiated the tangles her hair had worked itself into; more gentle than she ever was. "A brilliant mind such as yours, Hermione."

Her face was bitter, un-responsive. Flattery will get you nowhere, when it comes to those who disregard compliments, and instead seek criticism.

He continued despite her sudden stiffness. "You are far more intelligent than any student, not only now but for the past decades. Could you doubt that your sudden drop in the class standings would go unnoticed? And when you came to the hospital with headaches--it became obvious." His voice had slowly gained emotion, and was now filled with careful caring; a strange emotion from such a notoriously restrained man.

She shook her head slightly, and he began his brushing again. "There are those of us who have met the same boundaries, and refused to compromise with them. Who have exchanged one set of mind for a farther-reaching one. It doesn't come easily, but the alternative is madness--not something we are willing to consign you to."

Hermione shuddered, shoulders shaking with emotion.

"It began with obsession, didn't it. Headaches could be anything; your first real clue was in the obsession."

Her body was closed to him, tight, solitary.

"Obsession which I cued, getting on you so soon after an attack." His eyes were dark as he looked upon her, hair still dripping onto the soft cotton night gown. He muttered a charm to dry the moisture and prevent any more from accumulating, while ignoring the hair--constant spells were unhealthy for it.

"I apologize. I did not mean to cause you such pain, for I have experienced it myself. It is nothing you should have been forced to endure, especially for so long. Such a display of control is impressive, but dangerous. As I suspect you knew."

Once again, no verbal response was needed. They both knew that she had known of the danger, and but had not spoken up. How could she have not? Though little was written of it, there were mentions in some of the restricted books. Mentions of an insanity, characterized by headaches--caused by the battle within the mind--and the saving attempt of the war-torn conscience to grasp upon some solid being. Obsession. 

"Am I so despised that you would risk severe mental and physical harm to avoid me?" He knew that it wasn't that; the obsession would have helped her see through the front he was forced to put forward--not that the man he really was would be that appealing by society's standard. 

"Instead of seeking help from those who can see have been in your position, you chose to fight the demon by yourself. More Gryffindor bravado?" He kept his tone calm despite the harshness of his words, words that had to be said. There was probably some truth to them.

He set down the brush, tangles finally gone, and turned her head so that she faced him. "You'll have to work with me. If I am your obsession, I'll also have to help you to find a balance. There will be difficulty, and there will likely be pain, but you'll have to do it. Assume that there is no alternative, because there are far too many people who care about you, and won't let you give up."

They sat for some minutes, simply contemplating the pool, when Hermione suddenly kicked at the water. Liquid splashed across the tub, and onto the tile on the other side. She looked defiantly up at him, eyes dark.

He simply stood up, and held out a hand to help her to her feet, knowing that a comment of any sort would not be appreciated.

She eyed his hand warily. Touch. The first touch. A touch with so much relying on it.

He bent down to take her hand, and lifted her gently, accepting the touch for what it was.

"Your mind is currently unsteady, unsure, and afraid of its own arrogance. We can fix that. We will fix that."

She looked up at him again, straight into his eyes, a luxury she had not allowed herself since that potions class. They were still that mixture of browns, each color distinct--never muddied together. The occasional green was emerald bright, feeding into the blackness of his pupil. The hand, which still held hers gently, was soft, calloused by years of potions vials, and full of strength--something she desperately needed. 

He suddenly took her into his arms, holding her as tightly as if he were grasping her sanity and holding it to her. Perhaps he was. 

He whispered the words that Minerva McGonagall had whispered to a rather younger Severus Snape, as they had stood in the same position: "It will be all right. My dear child; it will be all right."


	3. Defiance

Hermione was curled in one of his two armchairs, mindlessly tracing the patterns of snakes lashing tongues and tails with her fingertips; though her eyes didn't leave his dark form. 

"Are you going to continue staring at me all night, or do you wish to ask some of the questions I'm _sure_ are fighting for prominence in your mind?" His voice was dry, but somewhat amused at her intense appraisal of him. Amusement was not what she was used to from him.

He turned towards her from the fire with a pot of tea and two cups. Honey was conspicuously absent from the tray he set on the table between his two plush arm chairs, and, from the look he gave her as her eyes searched, she did not feel it would be prudent to ask. 

"Tea is an art. Additives only dilute appreciation." She started at his voice, suddenly smooth after the previous dryness. He filled the two cups--_not_ bone china, as most of the student body would assume--and set one next to her. "Now, the questions?"

It was hard to think as he sat and carefully lifted his own teacup to sip, the radiant heat of no issue to his calloused, potion hardened hands. She had to look away, immersing herself in the swirling silvers and greens of the chair as she considered what would be most informative. 

He let her think, grateful for the loss of her impetuousness. It had been mid-fifth year that the staff had first noted a change; she no longer offered information so enthusiastically and began to question the sources which had once ruled her intellectual growth. Severus was most appreciative of the fact that she began to refrain from entering debates until she was certain of her opinion and argument. It was a patience that the rest of the students had yet to develop.

She realized, in the banal part of her mind, that her fingernails needed something--a filing, and a resolution to give up nail biting posthaste. "What do you know of this--condition?"

He snorted. "Little more than you, I'm sure."

A pause, in which she looked at him expectantly, passed quickly. He closed his eyes, and began. "It is commonly referred to as a patulous intellect; those of us afflicted with it usually call it a curse. Of course, we mostly don't speak of it at all." This was said in the calm, academic tone he rarely saw fit to use in class.

He looked down into his suddenly empty cup, and at her untouched one. "Poison in the tea would be both vulgar and cliche. I am neither. Drink," he said, returning to the amusement.

She cautiously picked up the cup, having no doubt that her calluses would not be as protective as his, and, finding it cool enough, took a sip. The look of surprised delight that crossed her face satisfied his protective inclinations. 

"I am not a potions master for nothing. At the very least, I can make very good tea." He refilled his cup and continued. "Its onset is characterized first by headaches, then the attempt of the conscious to maintain stability by focusing on a single thing--the obsession. That thing is most commonly a human, and when so is always one cursed themselves. As you have experienced."

"As I have experienced." Her eyes were closed and her head rested on the side of the chair but she maintained a certain tangible concentration.

"The afflicted person, debilitated by the pain and the effort of maintaining normality, will slowly drift into insanity--if left untrained. You will be taught; effectively thrown a rope with which you can climb out of the canyon your mind has already begun to dig. That is its effect upon a person--which some would claim is what it is. But we have learned more, information hard-earned as to its causes."

His voice was once more academic, calm, but with a tint of gentleness born of understanding.

"Picture your mind as a living entity, usually unaware of any boundaries but content to stay in a single, predestined area. In your case, an active being, curious and explorative. Alive enough to examine the area available, and then continue onward until you came up to the boundary that any sane mind must set--alive enough to continue trying to look over, through, across that boundary, that wall, to satisfy your curiosity." 

Smoothness, melting over her. The words slid around her body, the explanation filling her. Hermione could suddenly see the wall standing between her true self and true freedom; sense it, touch it, know it. She waited, hoping only for more words.

"The headaches that you have dealt with are basically caused by your mind running repeatedly into the wall, for you cannot see that it is anything but solid, and yet it is suddenly necessary for you to get through it. The urge to move outward, somewhere, is dealt with then by digging into the ground of the area, which is most unhealthy. The land uncovered, the land you retreat into, is a hole of madness. Therefore, you must learn to leave the canyon and go back to the wall, which you can deal with.

"The wall is built of many stones, each stone a minor challenge and inhibition. The mortar which binds the stones is strong, but what you have built--and it was your own mind which formed this--you can take down. You only need the training, as the training for laying the bricks was instinctual. Your mind will form the tools, tools by which you can create a door out of the peaceful land you have become ensconced in." 

His voice had changed, becoming a guiding light in the darkness of her mind. _See. See the wall, the unending wall, and see the bricks--each brick, each individual brick. See what holds the bricks together, what keeps your wall together, how you have built this wall. _

And then suddenly he stopped speaking, a rueful look crossing his face. The tone had changed, the timbre lighter. "I apologize. You asked for an explanation, and I gave you an introduction in meditation--something which should only rightfully come after you have had a chance to rest, and recover. I will task you enough with it later," he added when she began to protest. "Just--take that little bit of it that you've had, and let it lead you to peace. For now, another question?"

He reached out to pour himself yet another cup, but the teapot was inexplicably empty. A slightly crestfallen look crossed his face. "I shall have to make more--but I'm not sure if you will get any."

She smiled shyly, as much at his look--unusual in what had once seemed made of stone, unyielding to expressions of emotion--as the teasing, just as unexpected. 

"If you wish others not to drink it all, you should make it less appealing. That was the most wonderful tea I've had, and the house-elves are not new to cooking."

He turned from the stove and cocked an eyebrow at her. "There rarely is one who would risk life and limb to taste my concoction, though poison is far too traceable."

She laughed a quiet laugh, and returned to tracing the snakes as they waited for the tea to steep. Silence stretched, though it was not uncomfortable, until another question came to her mind. "How did you know of me?"

The tea was done and he returned with the tray again, two cups remaining on it despite his earlier warnings. His robes, smooth black robes of a higher quality than he would wear around inept potions students, swished softly as he sat and looked at her. "You know that I am not the only of us on the staff? I stand as your obsession only as Minerva did mine; and I will train you as she did me. We can recognize the signs, though I have never been but the victim before. It's a circle of life, each generation helps in the rebirth of the next."

Her eyes were shaded as she looked directly at him, into his remarkable eyes once again. "But... you despise her," she said. "Or you seem to, all the same."

He smiled sadly, not at all the nasty git he had appeared throughout her school years. "Minerva McGonagall is my dearest friend, and I am honored by the fact that I am one of hers. The war does not allow for friendships, however. Of the many sacrifices made, a closeness to Minerva remains the dearest loss to me."

She nodded her understanding, letting her eyes convey the sympathy she felt.

"Child, I hope that we may grow to be friends, gaining through this training a bond which is difficult to imitate in degree. Despite this, we might be required to behave as though you disdain me, or I you, or that we are enemies, or even that we are closer than friends. That is a part of the responsibility to take on with this, a responsibility to do as you can for the good of the people, utilizing strengths which they do not have." 

He spoke softly. "Whatever we may be forced to do, the bond will remain. I take advantage of any chances to speak with Minerva, though they are more difficult to come by as we have more responsibilities. No matter what may happen with us, I hope that I will be able to maintain contact with you."

They sat in silence once more, Severus waiting patiently for her next question, the subject of which he thought he could guess.

It came, worded cautiously and with great care.

"Professor, were you a Death Eater before you came into this--this?" She looked down at her lap, afraid for her daring.

"Don't be afraid to ask a question," he said gently. "I can do no less than answer your questions, for triggering this and now for forcing you to face it--as I will. You asked me if I was a Death Eater before--and I wasn't. I was fully trained, and friends with Minerva, before I made that decision, but it was not for the reasons that you might assume.

"I was young, but trained, and aware of the battle that was beginning--aware of the seriousness of it, as few of my peers were. I saw a way to help, and so--after much discussion with Minerva and Albus--I introduced myself to LordVoldemort. I was a pure-blood, widely known as a rather arrogant young man who was interested in power; an image that I had cultivated. We were sadly unaware of the extremes with which he treated his Death Eaters, and the cruelties which they enjoyed, when I decided to go to him; it was an aspect of the life that they did not highlight to recruits. And so I was a spy, too deeply entrenched to get out, and bound to it by the mark."

He unconsciously rubbed his left arm where the mark was, then realized what he was doing and flinched. "I must ask you to trust me as to the details of it all; they are too dangerous to burden you with."

Her hair shone, reflecting the fire's sparks as she shook it out and sat straighter. "I wish the war had never touched you."

His face was suddenly expressionless. "I don't. I have saved many more lives than I could have any other way, and I wouldn't send them to their death for anything. Even my freedom." He spoke harshly, freely, for the first time that night.

"Even your life?" Her voice too was harsher.

His eyes were sharp. "Yes. You will learn; a single life lost is more than worth the saving of many others." The sharpness suddenly faded, smoothing, leaving Severus stricken. "I apologize. You did not deserve my harshness so soon after becoming aware of so much."

She visibly calmed as well, but spoke once more. "Your life is worth more than you think."

He shook his head. "It is worth only what I can save in my death."

"Only because you've decided it's so!" she spoke bitterly, far louder than he.

He looked at her, so suddenly defensive on his behalf. So innocent, despite her years as the sidekick to lightning rod as far as danger went. "I only hope that you are never forced to make the same decision, because I know--I _know_--that you would choose the same." 

She wrapped her arms around her knees, and rested her chin between them. Her words were soft, so soft that he strained to hear them. 

"I know."


	4. Intermezzo

Gentle riplets of wind caressed her hair, sending strands of the unruly mass against her face and eyelids, which were suddenly raised. "I can't do this." 

He looked down at her flowing form, pulled into a controlled, seated position. _"Control." _He whipped his long, black robes around, sending more waves of air towards her. Her glare, as she noticed his attentions, went entirely unnoticed--or at least without remark.

"Close your eyes, and this time, keep them closed. You told me that you were ready for this; prove it." It never takes much to provoke a Gryffindor and the words 'prove it' from the mouth of a Slytherin are guaranteed to do so. 

She shook her head, a defiant, _controlled_ gesture, and shut her eyes.

Breathe. Breathe in, slowly, filling every inch of lung, full of sweet air, oxygen. Out now, out, still slowly--though it should take the same amount of time to release the breath as it did to take it in. Spine straight, tall, strong. In again. Breathe. 

_Now_. Now you can look into your mind. Let there be nothing there, nothing but blankness, nothing... Can you see it?

"See **what**?"

He opened one eye. "Control." 

The eye snapped shut, and she gulped, realizing that to disturb him was to recognize the consequences.

You silly girl. Don't try to concentrate, you'll never get there. It's--the opposite of concentration. Just let your mind be, don't talk to yourself. Don't do anything. Let it be, and then--let it be there. 

See? 

The house, your house is there... with the yard, and grass, and tree.

And the wall.

Do you see the wall?

Just let it be there, nothing and yet everything.

Let there be the wall.

Put one hand out--just one. Balance. Feel the cold smoothness of the stone, the particular pleasure only the touch of cool stone can give. It slides underneath your fingers, little inconsistencies catching your fingertips, but they continue to move gently.

Feel the mortar binding these stones together.

Do you remember the binding? The building? In that first moment of consciousness, when your mind realized how wide a world it is, and how quickly one can be stranded without some boundaries.

But there are no boundaries to a mind, in the initial second of wakefulness. There is only space, and experiences to be had. 

So you built yourself a wall, one of dark, solid stone. It is your wall.

You built it.

And you can take it down.

Severus Snape looked at his pupil. She sat, entranced with her own un-commissioned creation, just as he had once done. 

There is a certain fascination we hold of those who we shape, nurture, and help to create.

A certain magicality, if you'll pardon the pun.

A certain magicality that one such as Severus Snape never excepted to feel.

And certainly will never acknowledge. 


	5. Emergence

He walked with her, through the great gates of their home and safe-haven, towards the finite world they walked upon. 

She looked questioningly up at him as they exited--previous ventures had ended in the coves and gardens bounding the Forest, or in meditation spots designed by the founders. 

He said nothing, ignoring her look, instead simply taking her hand firmly between hers and commenting, quietly, firmly, "Trust me." 

And they were gone, flying, but falling, and twirling dizzily through the land in which space does not matter, in which you are where you want to be, in which possibilities seem endless. It was not a forgiving land, there were neither guides nor signs, but he knew where he was, and where he was going, and how, precisely, to register that place with this strange land.

And they were there.

He stood for a moment, slowly regaining balance and presence of mind, as she collapsed onto him. His eyes were closed, hers were wide, scared, and yet furious.

"Trust me? You can say nothing but 'trust me'?" Her eyes flashed at him as he opened his own, and he silently cursed that ability of the young to recover so quickly from experiences such as debilitate their elders. Facing Hermione Granger in a fury while nauseous was sure to be less than a pleasant experience.

"Yes. I told you to trust me." He closed his eyes once more. 

"Oh... Blast you!" She gripped her wand and muttered a spell, then led him towards the sensible sofa that she had conjured.

"Sit." 

He complied though a look of resignation crossed his face, and was only compounded by her following words.

"There's two reasons for you to tell me when you're going to do something like that--so I don't kill myself by jumping out of your reach when we Apparate, and so that I know that you're likely to faint on exiting." 

He shook his head slightly--any more would only reduce any reasoning skills he had regained--and sighed. "It had to be like that for your first time." 

"Oh?" 

How long had she been able to convey so many levels of meaning with one word... certainly not during her first years at school, it was a skill he would have appreciated. No, it had to have been his teachings... his fault. _A teacher knows himself to be successful when the student turns the tables..._

"Yes?" 

She raised one eyebrow, acknowledging the point. "Oh, as in 'oh, and _why_ did it have to be like that for my first time'?--as I'm certain you knew quite well." The last part was not quite a mutter, though certainly quiet enough that he had to strain to hear it. 

He decided that the time for a discussion of the precise wordings of questions would not end in his best interests until either a number of hours could pass or he had access to some chocolate, and answered her question--however poorly worded it was. 

"Apparation is a skill which comes reasonably easily to most. You open your mind, find your destination, and will that you are there--it is only for the concentration required that it is not available to minors; a decision that I am sure you can understand." 

She sat intently, not looking away, not letting her attention--her conscious--be drawn to anything else. If nothing else, he had taught her that there are things behind and beyond words that will tell you more than words ever can.

"That is as much as most understand about it. 'Open your mind, find your destination, and will that you are there'--and there you are. They have classes because nothing can be that simple.

"First, in opening your mind: There is a certain impulse against free flow of thought within your mind, a certain impulse that requires that you be in control of yourself, and apparition requires that you move beyond your mind and into a different area, where there are doors to other places. This can be taught, and is. 

"Second, in finding your destination: Upon opening the mind, you find yourself in a land that appears to be filled with doors--doors which lead to any possible place within your powers. You choose a door, knowing that it will be to where you want to go--for confidence is the only way to be sure of success. 

"Finally, you walk through the door, walk out into the world at the place that you wish it to be. And it is there, and it is complete, and it is the same world that you left less than moments before--except for where you are." He looked at her, checking comprehension; she nodded her understanding.

"This is what they are taught; how to find the door, choose the door, go through the door. You shall find it rather more difficult." 

Joy. 

His eyes caught her slight grimace of inner 'amusement,' and he smiled. Almost. 

"Yes, genius is rather a trial. Unfortunately it is not brought about consciously, nor can it be got rid of. However, this particular trial you shall find quite pertinent. You see, man is aware of only so much. That which is within his walls is all that he can know, that which he can see beyond he will be able to recognize. The multitude of doors into which you travel while Apparating reflect the world within your mind." 

Yes. Now she got it. 

Her eyes were closed, eyes moving behind the shadowed lids. He wondered if she knew that she moved her ears as she thought. 

"This, of course, means that when Apparating, _you _will have to choose from a seemingly endless number of doorways, options, places--even from those that you have never heard of, nor been, nor seen pictures of. Concentration and control are keys, for to spend to much time in that other, between land is healthy for neither the mind nor the body." 

She nodded, slightly, slowly, letting his words sink in fully as she did so. 

"You can gain great knowledge of yourself from the world you find yourself in when Apparating; I have received permission to be your instructor in that study. Be sure of this: I will train you in controlling your mind, and I will make sure that you do not lose yourself in the myriad of choices you will find yourself in. It all relates to your control." 

_Control_. Yes, he would emphasize that. 

"However," he added in a tone which was not as lecturing as it had been, "that is not the only reason that I brought you there. I also wanted to show you something... this way." 

It was only then that she began to process their surroundings, beyond the hastily conjured sofa (which she glanced down at with some embarrassment as he stood and began to walk away, and then immediately banished). 

It was a glen, shimmering with shadows and leaves. Above was thick with swells of heat and humidity, around a coolness had settled as clouds passed before the sun. It was... peaceful.

Lilac infused air swept around her as she walked quickly behind him. Lilacs, and lavender, and violets, and redbuds; trees in various stages of bloom and fruit. 

He crushed a berry indolently, the black-red pigments staining long, pale fingers. His nails were kept cut short, clean, and utterly devoid of any sign of indulgence. _No fingernail buffers for him._

The thought of nail buffers, let alone polishes and manicures, was not strong enough to survive in the presence of thoughts of him. _Pity, really. I imagine that, as a potions master, he could do quite amazing things for the female beauty industry. _

They continued to walk, weaving between the strong, thick, towering tree trunks and walking softly on the delicate grass that seemed to have taken over this stretch of ground. 

She continued to look around from her position behind his lead, watching the surroundings, listening to the careful footsteps crackling on the ground.

And then the trees were opening up again, flowing into an opening, a rift in the trees, a... a garden. Flowers and grasses, wild rippling grasses, trees, and berries, and fruits and flowers. Colors blended together into swirling hues of amazing variance. Color. And flowers.

They stopped, and he gestured to what she had not noticed in the vibrancy of the garden: two carefully cut stone benches, each looking somehow much more comfortable than their padded counterparts, and much more at home in the general natural aura. 

He sat first, claiming the bench which was shrouded in vines of greens. She went on to the second one and, seated, looked at him. "I never figured you for a gardener." 

She found herself the recipient of one of his more piercing looks. "Prejudices are a reflex of the lazy mind in order not to be required to formulate an educated opinion. Divest yourself of them, if at all possible." 

She bent her head in realization and acceptance of his words, but then returned to looking to him expectantly. 

He leaned back into the bench. "You'll find that stress is relieved in ways peculiar to the person affected. I garden." He sighed. "As you can see, my life has thus far been... unusually stressful." 

"Rather." 

They sat in silence, allowing the wind to be their silent companion. Winds ebbing and flowing, caressing and soothing. Whispering in a language long lost to man, perhaps telling stories of the places, people it has seen.

And then it began to change.

Subtly.

Subtly, but persistently.

She looked at him, at where he sat, eyes closed and lines relaxed, then up at the sky.

The sun's harshness was gradually being hidden by layer after layer of cloud. Storm clouds grew, tall, majestic, imposing, spawning more clouds to expand further throughout the sky. The Heavens are far beyond the barriers of the clouds, and, indeed, the clouds seemed to be conquering all the sky. 

And with the rising clouds came a certain rising tension that she faintly remembered from days spent in the country. Standing, looking up into the sky, seeing no one and nothing that could remind her of man and it's culture--standing, left to nature, whatever She may choose to do with her winds, and her waves, and her clouds and rains. 

Standing with that feeling filling the air around, that something was going to happen, something was going to break, the deluge was about to begin, it was impossible for her to think of anything beyond what she could feel, for she was connected to the skies and the clouds, and the rain droplets beginning to fall, and the trees beginning to shake, and the lightning flashing and thunder echoing. 

And she was connected to him, by virtue of his feeling the same thing... He was there, and he was underneath the same skies, underneath the same tumult of energy clashing and waging battle for the once blue, now cloud-sown stretches above.

They sat as the eternal battle played out above them, each feeling as though they were far more than themselves. There were souls within the forest surrounding them that were drawn to the same storm, and something stronger than they were present, commanding the forces of water and air.

Wind splashed water into their faces, clothes, bodies, bringing with it rifts of chill and occasional bursts of warmth. Grass bowed down before this far superior power, laden with water and battered by air. Delicate flower petals tore and fell under the weight of the assault upon them, releasing still stronger perfume into the air. 

The scent of the power of the storm was the most appealing, though; the smell of rain and lightning and energy--for energy has an original smell, recognizable when you're surrounded by it. 

They sat, underneath it all, feeling it all, connected to it all. And even after the storm had fully passed, taking with it the uncontrollable impulses of the clouds and skies, they sat, quietly.

He was the first to break the silence, the silence hard won after the sounds before.

"I wanted you to feel that... needed you to feel that. That sense of being more than yourself. That sense of power outside of yourself. Because you are going to be exposed to that more and more as your walls come down." 

He caressed a petal, once vibrant and brilliant in color, now tattered in strips.

"I need you to know what that feeling is. So that you know when it is coming--for it will, nature can summon storms within our minds just as in this world--and you will know what to do." 

They both looked at the petal, then at each other.

His eyes were clouded still, hers were bright and clear--like the water cleaned by falling rain. 

And she nodded slowly. "I will." 


End file.
